


Nothing Comes as Easy as You

by deepsix



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-15
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/pseuds/deepsix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I find it endlessly fascinating," says Eames, after a moment, "that you're such a terrible liar when it comes to these things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Comes as Easy as You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in two parts on foxxcub's [kissing meme](http://foxxcub.livejournal.com/692564.html). This started out as kissing, and then it... degenerated. You can blame myricarubra for the last part.

"Miss me?" Eames asks.

He's already dropped his bags, and he leans one hip up against the desk where Arthur is working. For all that he looks terrible -- tired and badly dressed and way too smug -- Eames also looks _good_ , his shirt open at the collar and sleeves rolled up over his forearms, his pants pulling in just the right way. There's a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, playful and lush, and his cologne mixed with the sharp scent of sweat is enough to make Arthur shiver. He's only been gone a week; Arthur shouldn't be so glad to see him.

"Every day that you were gone," Arthur says flatly, and tries to ignore it.

"Your insincerity is very flattering," says Eames.

"Who says I was being insincere?" Arthur asks, and then, when he sees Eames' expression change: "It would've been useful to have you around in the planning stages."

Eames makes a noncommittal noise, and it's pretty bad, the way Arthur's gut flips over at it. It's pretty bad, the shit he thinks about the way Eames quirks his mouth, the way Eames looks at him, the way Eames leans towards him, his fingers curving over the edge of the desk. It's pretty bad, because Arthur's pretty fucking done for if Eames' presence is enough to set his heart racing.

Arthur looks away.

"I find it endlessly fascinating," says Eames, after a moment, "that you're such a terrible liar when it comes to these things."

"What things?" Arthur asks.

The thing is, Eames never just leaves it alone. Instead, he puts one hand on the arm of Arthur's chair, and turns it so that Arthur has to look at him. Arthur straightens up as he does it, suddenly self-conscious of his slouch, about what he's broadcasting with his hips cocked and his legs spread, and Eames just smiles as he watches him do it.

They're way too close together.

"What?" Arthur repeats.

Eames leans down to kiss him, one hand braced on the desk, the other on Arthur's chair, and it's so fluid the way he does it, so totally at odds with the throb of Arthur's heart. Eames kisses him and Arthur feels like he can't even breathe, so shocked by the softness of Eames' mouth, the brush of Eames' skin, the rush of air between them.

 _Eames kisses him_.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks, when Eames pulls away. It's not far enough -- he can see the flecks of color in Eames' irises, can still feel Eames' breath on his mouth, and it's embarrassing how badly Arthur wants him. He doesn't even know what the fuck this is -- doesn't know what Eames is doing, kissing him, or even what he's missed that's been leading to this moment.

"Do you not want me to?" Eames asks.

"I didn't say that," says Arthur.

Eames licks into his mouth this time, tongue sliding against Arthur's lower lip, his teeth, slick against Arthur's own, and it's so fucking hot the way Eames opens for him. He slots their mouths together, and Arthur kisses him, helplessly, breathlessly, and he can't stop reaching for Eames, his palms sliding over the thick muscle of Eames' shoulders.

Eames is tense under his touch, but he doesn't stop kissing him, sucking at Arthur's lips, biting at his mouth, damp and hot and dirty, and Arthur moans, suddenly and unbearably turned on. He's hard already, cock pressing against the seam of his pants, and the taste of Eames' mouth is too much, too distracting. Eames hasn't even touched him, but Arthur melts into it, hot and shivering with the soft slick suck of Eames' lips on his own.

Arthur's breathing is ragged when they break apart. His mouth feels swollen, and he can't even imagine how it must look when --

"God, I want you," Eames says --

"We have to stop," says Arthur. And: "What?"

Because Eames looks fucking wrecked. His eyes are wide and dark and glossy, his lips parted, shiny, and Arthur can't look away. He fucking _wants_ , and Eames just looks back at him.

"What do you want to do?" Arthur asks, careful and quiet and breathless.

"Get out of here," says Eames.

They do.

*

The air conditioning in the hotel is cranked, and Arthur's skin prickles with it, undressed. He's already been sweating -- from the heat outside, but also the heat of Eames' mouth, from the way Eames had pressed against him when they were alone again -- and his skin feels sticky, oversensitive against the bedspread.

Eames' skin is warm, though, and Eames runs one palm flat up Arthur's side, fingers skimming at Arthur's ribs. He pushes one knee between Arthur's legs, and his cock is hot and silky where it presses up against Arthur's thigh. It's so fucking hot between them, and Arthur reaches for him, sliding his hands up Eames' back, and kisses him.

It's different than it was before -- less tentative, more purpose. There's nothing cautious about the way Eames does it now, his tongue sliding across Arthur's, hands pulling Arthur closer. They kiss until Arthur's gasping, until he can't even breathe, and he's so turned on by the way Eames rubs against him, by the friction of Eames' skin against his cock. He's so turned on, and he doesn't even know what the fuck they're doing, but he wants it so fucking badly.

He lets Eames pull him on top, and he slides one thigh over Eames' hips. It's -- Arthur can't even decide, but he leans over Eames, bracing one hand on the bed, and he pushes their cocks together. He can feel the sweat standing out on Eames' skin, dampening the hair on his thighs, on his belly, and Eames leans up and kisses him again, mouthing at his jaw, his neck, the join of his shoulder. Eames' mouth is soft and slick, and Arthur curls his fingers around both of them, pressing them together, thumbing at the head of his cock.

Eames murmurs against his skin as Arthur jacks them both, breathless and panting, and beneath him Arthur can feel the quiver that starts in Eames' thighs, the way Eames' fingers tighten, shaking, on Arthur's skin. He can feel Eames start to tense, can feel the slickness of the pre-come on Eames' cock, and _oh god, Eames_ \--

"Stop," Eames gasps out. His lips are damp against the curve of Arthur's ear, and he touches Arthur's wrist, pulling Arthur's hand away. "I don't want to, like this," Eames says.

Arthur tips his head forward, pressing his forehead to the slope of Eames' shoulder. Eames is sweaty, and he smells fucking amazing, and Arthur is so goddamn hard. "Then how?" he asks, frustrated.

He lets Eames haul him up instead. Eames grabs him and pulls him forward, so Arthur's straddling his waist, Eames' cock slipping between Arthur's thighs, behind him. _Oh_ , Arthur thinks, and Eames' cock slides against his ass, and Arthur pushes back against him. It's suddenly blunt and hot with friction between them, and Eames slides his hands up Arthur's thighs, thumbs settling against Arthur's hipbones, fingertips pressing against the curve of Arthur's ass. Arthur rubs against him, and Eames moans, lifting his hips, his cock pressing hard into the crease of Arthur's ass.

There's nothing controlled about it now, about the way Eames' movements stutter, the way he gasps, the way Arthur leans forward, finding Eames' mouth again, grinding his cock against Eames' stomach. He's still frantically, desperately turned on, muscles quavering with arousal, and Eames touches him like he can't get enough.

Eames' mouth is slick and obscene when he pulls it away from Arthur's. He looks up at Arthur, wide-eyed and flushed, and his skin is hot everywhere they touch -- under Arthur's hands, against his thighs, pushing against his ass.

"Arthur," Eames says, and he sounds ragged. "Please let me fuck you."

"You got lube?" Arthur asks.

Eames' fingers are slick and smooth when he pushes them in, and Arthur loosens against him, sweat prickling up his spine with the tension of his arousal. He rocks forward against Eames, pressing his mouth to whatever skin he can reach -- the underside of Eames' jaw, the curve of his throat, the jut of his collarbone. He can feel Eames' pulse throbbing through his skin, matching counterpoint to his own, and he moans, incoherently, and Eames just touches him, and stretches him, and Arthur's so hard with the anticipation.

"Come on," Eames says. He twists his fingers, and Arthur wants him _now, god_. He hitches back against Eames, and Eames pulls his fingers out, and Arthur can feel the movement behind him as Eames slicks his cock. He lifts his ass to let Eames push at his hole, and it's so slippery and hot, and he presses back as Eames slides inside.

Arthur sinks down, and it feels impossibly slow, impossibly deep. Eames' cock is smooth and blunt all at once, and Arthur braces his palms against the angle of Eames' thighs. He can hardly breathe for the sensation, his lungs tight and jagged, and he can't stop watching the way Eames' expression changes as his cock slides in.

When he's in -- _god_ \-- it's no different, but Eames fucks up into him, slow and languorous, and Arthur feels hot and shivering all at once. It feels so _good_ , and Arthur lets it go slow, rocking against Eames until they find a rhythm, devastatingly deep, slick, hard.

Eames touches him throughout, his fingers still slippery with lube, firm on Arthur's cock. He stares back at Arthur as they fuck, his eyes wide and dark, mouth slack with pleasure, and Arthur couldn't have even imagined him like this. For all that he's wanted, Arthur's never been able to imagine the exact flush of Eames' skin, or how Eames' moans would turn breathless, or the way the muscles in Eames' stomach would clench as he let Arthur ride him.

It's so fucking hot, the way Eames loses it.

Arthur's orgasm comes as a shock, starting as a hot prickle down his spine, and he watches as his come spills over Eames' skin. But he fucks Eames through it, twisting his hips down even as Eames pushes into him, thick and hot and so, so good.

He watches as Eames comes, and it's a fucking revelation, the way Eames stills, the way he clutches at Arthur, the way he moans. It's fucking gorgeous, and Arthur has to kiss him through it, bending to find Eames' mouth, to share his breath, to share the sounds.

Eames slides his fingers into Arthur's hair after they've rolled apart. Everything's hot and sticking even in the chill, and still Arthur curls towards him, and still Arthur kisses him, soft and closed-mouthed and content.

"You did miss me, didn't you," Eames says after a time, breath warm against Arthur's skin.

"Why don't you shut up," Arthur says, and then he makes him.


End file.
